“Are you having fun?”
She frowned. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
He laughed. But as he continued to regard her, his eyes darkened. His smile faded. Finally he shook his head. “Damn, you’re beautiful. And what—nineteen?”
“Twenty-one,” she said warily.
He shook his head again. “I haven’t been thinking straight. What happened last night—it was wrong—I’m sorry.”
She flushed, taken aback by this unexpected statement. “I beg your pardon. If you found it so unpleasant, sir, you might have said at the time.”
“No.” He reached out to touch her face, but she leaned away. “No, I mean it was—extremely nice. My God, it was incredible. But you’re an unmarried woman, and I’ve corrupted you. When your future husband realizes you’re not a virgin, what will you tell him?”
“To angle slightly to the left, and rub with his thumb.”
He laughed, despite himself.
“Cecilia Bassingthwaite is younger than I am,” she said in a dangerous tone.
“Cecilia’s a pirate,” he replied, and avoided being maimed only because her escape from several policemen in hot pursuit was dependent on his able-bodied presence.
“I’m a witch,” she retorted.
He frowned. “Don’t remind me.”
“I’m also an adult woman who is capable of making her own decisions about what she wants to do in the company of a man. Your house just flew past.”
Glancing up, he saw the house move away over the field. “Shit.” He stretched up to look over the wall.
“How many?” Charlotte asked.
He sat down again. “Four. I’m flattered.”
“They’re coming for me, not you.”
“Braggart.”
The house began to circle back. Alex stood, pulling Charlotte up with him. In one swift, casual movement, he drew his gun, turned, and shot. A startled noise leaped from Charlotte’s throat even as a policeman’s helmet leaped from the head of its occupant. The policeman flung himself to the ground, yelping as he cowered.
“Please tell me you didn’t miss your target,” Charlotte said rather shakily.
“I didn’t miss my target,” Alex replied, tugging her into a run. “I may be a scoundrel, but I’m not a murderer.”
They hurried across the field. Alex’s cottage swooped near and a rope ladder dropped from one window. He caught it.
“Take hold and don’t let go,” he ordered Charlotte.
“I can incantate—”
“In front of the police? Take the bloody ladder.”
She grasped hold of the swaying rope and clambered up onto its second rung. Immediately Alex moved behind her, standing on the lowest rung with his body protectively against hers as he clutched the rope above her hands. The house lifted, causing the ladder to swing wildly.
“Keep holding on,” Alex said in Charlotte’s ear.
“Stop right there!” shouted a policeman and blew his whistle furiously.
Charlotte sighed. Men simply couldn’t help themselves, telling a woman what to do. As if she was stupid enough to either let go or stop and be caught! Really, Miss Plim was right: if males weren’t necessary for procreation and opening tightly lidded jars, womankind could get along quite nicely without them.
